Savage Beauty
by Speaker-to-Customers
Summary: AU, everybody's human. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland, Spike is a Jivaro headhunter in the Brazilian rainforest. Can they get together despite all odds? Also WillowTara, XanderAnya.
1. Chapter One

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter One**

Rupert Giles called out a greeting as he approached the village. The children clustered around the anthropologist as usual, aiming their toy blowpipes at him, and making humorous gestures signifying cutting off his head and shrinking it.

The chief's son emerged from his hut and gave him a beaming smile. His white teeth flashed below the bamboo rod that ran through the septum of his nose; the facial decoration that had led Giles to give the young man the nickname of 'Spike'.

"Hi, mate," the head-hunter greeted. His English, learned from a drunken trader, was fluent but idiosyncratic and studded with profanities. "Come on in, pull up an anteater, and call the ocelot a bastard."

"Hello, Spike," Giles replied. "I trust you are well. I have brought the latest shipment of magazines along for you."

"Sodding brilliant!" Spike exclaimed. "You get them out while I brew up some maté and chuck a couple of guinea pigs on the grill."

Giles slipped his pack from his shoulders and unfastened the straps. As he was taking out the package of magazines a slim feminine figure glided gracefully into view.

"Hello, Rupert," she said sensuously. "The spirits of the jungle, Curipuri, told me that you would come. I heard it in the cries of the howler monkeys, and saw it in the patterns made by the ants as they foraged."

Giles raised his eyes to the forest canopy. "Drusilla, you know I always call in on Fridays."

"Only because the spirits will it," said the tribeswoman. Giles had named her after Caligula's sister because of her capacity for extreme violence, her tenuous grasp on reality, and her apparent desire to copulate with her brother Spike. She was a fascinating subject for anthropological study; but frankly she scared the shit out of him. "If the spirits were against it, a jaguar would devour you as you walked along the sacred path."

Giles tried to ignore her, although that wasn't always a safe course of action, and went on with extracting the magazines. He handed Drusilla a copy of 'Cosmopolitan'; his luck was in, and she squealed with delight and wandered off to read it. Giles sighed with relief.

Spike emerged from his hut again bearing two guinea-pigs impaled on skewers. He set them to grill over the village cooking fire, and his silent and sickly mother put a pot of water on to boil ready for the maté, herb tea.

"Pass me a magazine, mate," Spike said, and Giles gave him a copy of Newsweek's International edition. Spike glanced at the cover with little interest at first, and then his eyes opened wide. "Beautiful!" he exclaimed, and babbled excitedly in his own language for a moment. "What a sodding lovely bird! Never seen anything like her."

Giles looked at the cover. It bore a picture of the new Prime Minister of Iceland, Buffi Sommersdottir; a striking Scandinavian blonde, whose extreme youth for such a high position was the main reason for her featuring in the magazine. "She is rather remarkable, I suppose," he conceded.

"Bloody right," Spike said emphatically, and his penis sheath twitched. "I've got to have her. She's just made for me. How far is it to Iceland?"

Giles groaned, and began to explain to the Jivaro head-hunter the absolute impossibility of him even getting to meet the Icelandic Prime Minister.

"I could get Sting to introduce us," Spike suggested confidently.

"I suppose you could," Giles said doubtfully. He began to feel uneasy, and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. He turned around and saw Drusilla staring at the magazine, with a murderous expression on her face, and toying with a poison dart.

**To be continued …**

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	2. Chapter Two

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Two**

"Purpose of your visit?" the Immigration officer at Reykjavik Airport asked.

"I come to marry your beautiful Prime Minister," Spike told him.

"Ha, ha, you make the funny," the Icelander said, his bored tone indicating that it wasn't the first time a visitor had declared that intention. "Purpose of visit?"

"Tourism," Giles put in firmly. "We are all here as tourists."

"Góður himinn!" the Customs man exclaimed loudly. "What is this?"

Giles looked across to the Customs desk and his heart sank. The Icelander was holding Drusilla's favourite shrunken head.

"That is Miss Edith," Drusilla explained. "She is my spirit guide." She smiled at him angelically. "She was a missionary until she met Daddy."

"Umm, it is a religious artefact," Giles said desperately. "A replica of the sort of thing her people used to have in the old days." His heart was in his boots. He was pretty sure he'd managed to relieve Drusilla of all her poison darts and knives, and he'd successfully persuaded her to leave all her poison arrow frogs at home by telling her that there would be nothing for them to eat in Iceland, but somehow he'd overlooked Miss Edith. Thank God the connecting flights had worked out smoothly and they hadn't had to pass through Customs in New York; the reaction of an American official to the shrunken head wasn't something he cared to contemplate.

The Icelandic Customs Officer looked at Miss Edith dubiously, and then looked at his list of contraband items. He scratched his head, and then handed the macabre trophy back to the Jivaro girl. "It is shrunken head, I know," he said, "but it is not covered by the regulations. Unless it comes under Meat Products? No, that could not be right. And humans are not covered under CITES. Welcome to Iceland."

Giles led the way out of the airport concourse towards the taxi ranks. Heads turned as the exotic trio, or rather the exotic duo plus one ordinary middle-aged Englishman, passed. Giles had managed to talk Spike into donning jeans and a sweatshirt, although he had a sneaking suspicious the penis sheath still lurked below the jeans, but the spike through the young man's nose was an obvious oddity. Drusilla was clad in a long cotton skirt and a decorous blouse, but somehow seemed even more sultry and sexual than when she walked through the rain forest with her firm breasts on open display. Her enigmatic smile showed that she was well aware of the effect she was having on the local men. Spike was having a similar effect on the local women, but seemed to be completely oblivious to it; his mind was no doubt fixed firmly on the Prime Minister and he would accept no substitutes.

Not for the first time Giles wondered what temporary insanity had led him to go along with this mad scheme. It was fascinating from an anthropological point of view, of course, the culture clash rated about 9.6 on the Richter scale, but the potential for horrible embarrassment was unlimited. Even assuming he managed to restrain Drusilla from killing anyone, and that was by no means a given. Somehow he'd not only agreed to accompany them but had even obtained a research grant that was covering most of their expenses. Now, in the cold light of a Reykjavik winter's day, he could only assume that he'd been struck by some tropical brain fever. Or perhaps he'd been hypnotised by Drusilla, who claimed shamanic powers, and sometimes demonstrated abilities that indicated that they were not entirely bunkum.

Too late to back out now, of course; they were here, and he would just have to make the best of it. With luck, Spike would be cured of his obsession once he saw the Prime Minister in the flesh and saw that she was just an ordinary woman.

-

In her early days as a student activist she had gained the nickname 'Valkyrie'. However, after her Gold Medal at the Athens Olympics had catapulted her to national, and indeed international, fame that nickname had seemed inadequate. She wasn't a Chooser of the Slain; she was the Slayer. Political opponents had soon learned that her gift for destroying an opponent on the Judo mat extended into the realms of the debating chamber.

"You work too hard," her Parliamentary Secretary, Anya Aud Olafsdottir, told her. "The country is prosperous and peaceful. There is time for you to let your hair down. Take some time out to party, and have some orgasms."

"That would not make me an acceptable role model for our youth," Buffi Sommersdottir replied. "Our teenage pregnancy rates are too high as it is. Perhaps when I have introduced my new legislation to safeguard our fishing industry for all time, and have ensured that our economy is protected against all adverse effects from the Americans downgrading their military installations here, then I might relax for a short time." She sighed. "And besides, all the men I meet are totally boring."

"Even that handsome young American colonel?" Anya asked.

"Even him. Also, I am sure he is a spy of some sort," Buffi said. "A colonel at that age? Very strange."

"So says the girl who is Prime Minister at twenty-four," Anya shot back. "If you are surrounded all the time by boring politicians, middle-aged and married, it is your own fault."

"How could I turn down the chance to be Prime Minister? The people have chosen me, and I have a duty to serve them. Being the chosen one is an honour and a privilege, and I will not let my people down."

"And you won't let your panties down either," Anya teased.

."Not unless I meet someone extremely out of the ordinary," Buffi smiled, "and in this environment I don't think that is very likely."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	3. Chapter Three

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Three**

The three unlikely tourists sat down to breakfast in the Hotel Loftleiðir. Drusilla looked suspiciously at the food, trying each dish warily, before deciding that it was edible and tucking in. Spike ate everything that was put in front of him but his mind was elsewhere.

"When do I meet the woman?" he demanded.

"As soon as I can arrange something," Giles told him. "She is the Prime Minister, you know. The Chief. We can't just walk into her offices and demand to see her. We'd be arrested."

"I am the son of a chief," Spike reminded him.

"Yes, Spike," Giles said, "but she won't know that. You haven't been on the cover of Newsweek, remember."

"Sodding unfair," Spike growled. "Raoni of the Kayapo managed it, and I'm much better looking than him."

"My Spike is the most handsome of all," Drusilla said dreamily. "Lithe as a giant otter, fierce as a jaguar, and not even a tapir has such a large –"

"Yes, quite, Drusilla," Giles interrupted hastily. "I'm sure she will be most impressed, but it will take time to arrange a meeting."

"I know you will do your best, Rupert," Spike said. "You are a bloody good mate."

"We will meet her," Drusilla said confidently. "Miss Edith has told me so. We shall find her near a pyramid of gold."

Giles frowned, and scanned his Lonely Planet Guide. "The Ásmundur Sveinsson Sculpture Museum has a pyramid," he read, stumbling slightly over the Icelandic name, "but it doesn't say anything about gold."

"Miss Edith has spoken," Drusilla said. "I am far from the spirits of the forest; but what will be, will be."

"Okay, mate, let's go to this pyramid," Spike said, pushing away his empty plate and standing up.

"Very well," Giles agreed. "Drusilla, please put that carving knife back on the table. You are not allowed to take it away from the restaurant."

-

"You're sure you can get us into the reception?" Willow Rosenberg asked, for the fifth time.

"No problem, Will," Xander Harris replied. "Only, you'll have to dress up for it. Lose the fuzzy sweater. Put on an actual dress. You have got one?"

"Of course I've got a dress," Willow said indignantly, and then her shoulders slumped. "Only, not with me. All I brought were warm clothes because, hey, Iceland here."

"We can hire dresses," Tara suggested.

"Yeah, we can hire them," Willow beamed. "Yay us. We can totally be elegant and sophisticated." She glared at Xander indignantly as he choked back a laugh. "Like you've got room to talk. Okay, now you're the Ambassador's son, big with the formal wear, but I remember when you thought a Hawaiian shirt was the height of fashion."

"Sorry, Will," Xander said. "Just having a hard time picturing you in a cocktail dress, that's all."

"There'll be cocktails?" Willow looked nervous.

"Well, yeah. Kinda goes with the whole Ambassadors' Ball thing."

"Just think James Bond," Tara said. "We're the beautiful girl spies infiltrating the headquarters of the sinister enemy organisation to frustrate their evil schemes. Think of the whales, sweetie. We can do it. We can talk the Prime Minister round. All we need is the chance to meet her."

"And while you're telling her all about the damage that restarting whaling will do to her country, I can be making time with her beautiful secretary," Xander gloated. "I think we have a plan."

-

The Sculpture Museum turned out to be suffering from a total absence of Prime Ministers. So did Alpingishus, the Parliament building. Spike grew disgruntled, but Drusilla seemed happy. Giles was suspicious of her motivation for making the trip anyway; he strongly suspected her of wanting to keep Spike unmarried, and hadn't wanted her to accompany them to Iceland at all. She had, however, persuaded her brother that the jungle spirits would be angry if he went without her, and had insisted on coming along.

They left Alpingishus and wandered through the harbour district of Reykjavik. They passed by a large square building bearing the legend, in English and Icelandic, 'Bakkavör Group: Cod Roe Smoking House'. Drusilla sniffed the air and clapped her hands together in glee. "Burning baby fishes," she cried. "A fitting sacrifice to the spirits. My Spike shall see his lady."

"My feet are sore," Spike complained. He was accustomed to going barefoot through the jungle, and was having trouble adjusting to wearing the boots that were necessary in an Icelandic winter. "We have walked sodding miles. I want to sit down for a while."

"Certainly, Spike," Giles agreed. "I wouldn't object to a break myself. I suggest we find somewhere for a meal and perhaps a drink or two."

"Bloody brilliant, mate, now you're talking," Spike said happily.

They soon found their way to a restaurant and bar. There, to his utter astonishment, Giles found someone he knew very well.

"Hello, Rupert, you old dog," his old friend greeted him. "Have a drink, and introduce me to the lovely lady. And the gentleman, I suppose."

"Ethan Rayne!" Giles exclaimed. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"I'm on the British Embassy staff," Ethan explained. "Second assistant to the Trade Attaché."

"I thought they'd have thrown you out of the Foreign Office long ago, you old reprobate," Giles said.

"They've pretty much sent me into exile with this job, old boy, but they can't throw me out. I know where too many of the bodies are buried." Ethan drained his glass and gestured to summon the barman. "So, Rupert, what are you doing in Iceland? Thought you were up the Amazon. Mine's a pint, by the way."

Giles bought drinks, including one for Ethan, and ordered meals. He explained to his old University friend the purpose of the expedition.

"Ah, as luck would have it you're looking at the very person who can help you," Ethan chuckled. "The Ambassadors' Ball is this Friday. Buffi Somersdottir will be there, and it's the very place to get to meet her. And I'm just the bloke who can get you in. At a very reasonable rate."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	4. Chapter Four

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Four**

"Madame Prime Minister, may I present a fellow Olympic Gold Medallist?" Ambassador Harris gestured with his champagne glass towards a tall, handsome, dark-haired man. "Won that funny sort of wrestling where they roll round on the floor. Liam Angle."

"I've met Miss Sommersdottir before, Ambassador," Angle said. He smiled broadly and held out his hand. "Hello, Buffi."

Buffi ignored his proffered hand and stared coldly at the man who had taken her virginity in the Athletes' Village at the Sydney Olympics. The next day, tired and sore and worried because it hadn't occurred to her to take precautions, she had lost a fight to the USA's Darla Rothrock. Buffi had won her way through the Repechage to take Bronze, but her dream of Gold had had to wait another four years. She couldn't help blaming Angle for that; especially once she found out that he had been seeing Darla before and had gone back to her after the Games.

"I'm not with Darla any more, Buffi," Angle said softly. "I hoped maybe I could spend some time with you while I'm in Iceland?" His smile died as Buffi turned away from him without speaking. "Or perhaps not." Angle gave up and walked off to join Colonel Riley Finn.

"Okay, that didn't go so well," Ambassador Harris mumbled, and then his insincere professional smile returned to his face. "Have you met my Secretary for Gay Issues, Kennedy Kennedy?"

Buffi forced herself to adopt a similarly insincere smile. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Kennedy." She was becoming tired of the company of the American Ambassador, and after the shock of meeting Angle again she felt in need of a moment to herself, and so she sought for a way of quickly freeing herself from this new contact without offending the girl. She saw one of her friends nearby and seized an opportunity. "May I introduce you to one of our Icelandic personalities? Osvald Osvaldsson, also known as Oz, a descendant of our legendary berserker Egill Skallagrimsson. He has achieved renown in his own right as bass guitarist of our most famous group since the Sugarcubes; Polar Bears Ate My Walrus."

-

Ethan tried to guide Giles and his two Jivaro charges through the fringes of the crowd without attracting attention, but was not entirely successful. Of course, the rather striking appearance of the Brazilians might have had something to do with that.

Drusilla was wearing what could only be described as a gownless evening strap. The dress was long, reaching almost to the floor, but above the waist the designer had obviously ran short of material and been forced to improvise. At the back there was nothing at all above the base of her spine but a mere thread that ran across at the level of her shoulder-blades. The front stopped quarter of an inch above her nipples. Her long slender neck was set off exquisitely by a string of pearls that had looked merely trashy on their original owner, a Manaus prostitute who had made the terminal mistake of taking Drusilla on in a knife-fight, but which became the epitome of sensual elegance on the golden-skinned Jivaro girl. She moved with a careless grace and a certain sway of the hips that did terrible things to the male libido. Her full lips, and her huge dark eyes with their wicked gleam, put the final touch to a vision of carnal loveliness that had even Giles, who was somewhat immunised to her after months of seeing her wandering around in nothing but a scrap of bark-cloth, feeling like beating his chest and baying at the moon. God only knew what it was doing to those unaccustomed to the elemental presence that was Drusilla.

Spike outshone her. Giles had managed, after a long talk and many references to James Bond, to get him into a dinner jacket and bow tie. However he had added a touch of Amazonian ceremonial finery to his appearance by inserting the tail feathers of a macaw into his nasal ornament. It should in theory have looked ridiculous; but the magnificently lithe savage, with his panther walk and his fiery eyes, managed somehow to carry it off. The finishing touch was the scar on his eyebrow; a parting gift from a jaguar that had caught him unarmed and that he had strangled with his bare hands. The overall impression was one of untamed masculinity and danger personified.

Heads turned to follow their progress across the room, and in their wake there was but one topic of conversation. Giles and Ethan managed to fend off most of those who tried to accost them, but eventually they ran into someone it was impossible to brush off; the British Ambassador, Quentin Travers, and the Embassy's Cultural Attaché,

"Ah, Rayne, there you are," Travers said genially. "Rather, ah, unusual company you're keeping tonight, I see. Introduce us, old chap."

"Her Brittanic Majesty's Ambassador to Iceland, Quentin Travers CBE," Ethan said formally, "and our Cultural Attaché, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. This is Rupert Giles, the distinguished anthropologist, and his, umm, research subjects Spike and Drusilla."

"Spike? Drusilla?" Wesley echoed, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Their Jivaro names are rather difficult for a Western tongue to pronounce," Giles explained.

"You can call me Guilherme o Sagrento if you'd rather, tosser," Spike growled, taking an instant dislike to the Cultural Attaché's tone.

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "And what do the Brazilians call this enchanting lady?"

"Oh, they don't call me anything," Drusilla smiled. "Usually they just scream."

-

Buffi managed at last to disengage herself from the American Ambassador. She headed for her faithful secretary, but found that Anya was deep in conversation with the Ambassador's son. They were smiling and laughing together, and Buffi was loath to interrupt them. She avoided approaches from the Belgian Ambassador and the Russian Military Attaché, and managed to slip away to a quiet corner to gather her thoughts for a moment.

Her respite was brief. Two young women approached her. "Madame Prime Minister," one of them said diffidently, her mouth set in a shy and quirky smile, "Can we, like, talk to you for a minute? It's pretty important." She was a redhead, not beautiful but pretty in a rather boyish way, and she was fidgeting with the shoulder straps of her ball gown as if unaccustomed to such a garment.

"I suppose so," Buffi said reluctantly.

"It's about the whales," said the other girl, a mousy blonde with heavy eyelids that made her look half asleep. "If your country starts killing them again it would be a really big mistake. It would cost your economy money, and we can prove it."

"We've got all the figures here, we can show you," the redhead went on, reaching for her handbag. She met Buffi's eyes and seemed to recognise the Prime Minister's deep desire for a moment alone. "Or not," the girl said. "You look a bit, well, upset. Guess I shouldn't bother you. Maybe catch you later."

The other girl frowned, and then nodded in understanding and gave a gentle smile. "You're right, sweetie," she told her friend. "Sorry to have bothered you, Prime Minister. You look like you want to be alone, so we'll leave you to it."

"Wait," Buffi told them, and smiled, suddenly taking a liking to the shy and polite pair. "I would be happy to hear what you have to say. There are people here I would like to avoid, but if you are with me that will keep them away. I can be alone with you here."

-

"I've read a couple of your books," Wesley told Giles. "_Welcome to the Jungle _and _Blowpiper at the Gates of Dawn_. Quite well written, I must say, but I have spotted a couple of errors."

"Errors?" Giles bridled. "I wrote them on the spot. Right in among the tribespeople. What errors?"

Wesley smiled patronisingly and shook his head. "My dear fellow, surely everyone knows that Capoeira was brought to Brazil by slaves and is unknown to the natives of the interior. It's an art of the cities and rural areas; as is Brazilian Jiu-jitsu, which you also describe being utilised by the Jivaro. Obviously an error. The tribes of the rain-forest don't go in for unarmed combat."

Drusilla gave him a hard stare. "That's not a nice way to talk to my Rupert," she scolded, and hit Wesley in the solar plexus with the tips of her stiffened fingers. She brought an elbow up under his jaw as he doubled up.

Giles caught the unconscious Cultural Attaché as he toppled. Hastily he dragged the limp form to a nearby chair and propped him up against the wall.

Quentin Travers had been talking to Ethan Rayne. He caught the movement with the corner of his eye and looked round, just too late to see the action. He glanced incuriously at his associate, saw nothing wrong, and turned back to Ethan.

Giles sighed and wiped his brow. It looked as if they'd got away with it.

"He was nasty to you, my Rupert," Drusilla said, and looked at Wesley appraisingly. "But he is quite pretty. He would make a nice companion for Miss Edith. Can I take his head?"

"God, no," Giles gasped. "Certainly not." Drusilla pouted, but made no move towards any sharp objects, and Giles sighed with relief once more. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn't have a headache yet but he was sure that one was only a matter of time. He hadn't missed Drusilla's 'my Rupert', and shuddered at the thought of what that might mean.

Travers turned back to Giles. "What do you think about the slaughter of whales, Mr Giles?" the ambassador asked.

Giles frowned again. "I'm afraid I haven't really been able to follow the Six Nations from the Upper Amazon," he replied. "I must say I'm surprised, I had heard that Wales had a pretty good team this year."

"Not Wales, whales," Travers said. "I'm not talking about the rugby. Huge marine mammals. The prospect of Iceland going back to being a commercial whaling nation. It's one of the major topics of conversation around here at the moment."

"Again, not something I'd heard much about in the rain forest. Generally I support indigenous peoples maintaining cultural traditions such as hunting," Giles said, and pursed his lips. "I'm not sure that mechanised hunting for export with gadgets such as explosive harpoons really falls into that category, however. It's not quite the same as my companion Spike skinning a jaguar after he has strangled it with its own tail." He looked around and saw no sign of the Jivaro warrior. "Oh dear. I wonder where he's got to now?"

-

Buffi was chatting happily to the two American girls, Willow Rosenberg and Tara Maclay. They were, as she had suspected from their first approach, Greenpeace activists campaigning against Iceland's planned reintroduction of commercial whaling. However they were also lively and intelligent girls, much like the students Buffi had known during her own time at University, and brought back memories of a more carefree time when politics had been merely a hobby. Their argument against whaling was not based purely on sentiment, but on hard facts and figures showing the value of whale-watching to the Icelandic economy compared to the potential income from whaling. It was just like being back in the student union, and Buffi relaxed and laughed with them. They shared chocolates from a tower of gold-wrapped Ferrero Rocher that stood nearby, and went from discussing whaling to sharing gossip.

Then an unwelcome figure joined the group. Her secretary's father, Olaf Grímsson, the leading figure of the whalers. He talked loudly of harpooning and of boiling whale blubber, and made offensive and lewd comments towards the girls. Had he not been Anya's father Buffi would have had him thrown out, or even thrown him out herself, but she was very attached to Anya and for her sake she restrained herself.

Eventually Willow and Tara could bear it no more, stammered out goodbyes, and departed.

Olaf chortled, and called out after them mockingly. "You do well to flee, tree-huggers. I will harpoon your Minke and Humpbacks. I will flense your Greys, and make meaty soup of the more attractive dolphins."

"That was very rude, Olaf Grímsson," Buffi scolded. "You have made us appear as barbarians in the eyes of the Americans. Were it not for my friendship for your daughter I would make sure that things went ill for you."

"Have a care, Buffi Sommersdottir," Olaf growled. "My union is powerful. I could make sure that things go ill for you too. And if you threaten me I will turn you over my knee, Prime Minister or no."

Buffi snapped. All the bad feelings that had been simmering within her since her encounter with Angle suddenly boiled up. She spun on her heel, her hands raising the hem of her ball gown to free her legs, and lashed out a spinning kick to the massive whaler's jaw. Olaf's head jerked back with the impact and he crashed to the ground.

Buffi let her dress fall once more and stood still. She was suddenly filled with shame at her violent reaction, and dread lest a reporter or foreign diplomat had seen her impulsive move. To her horror she heard the sound of a pair of hands clapping slowly behind her.

She turned and saw a figure standing beside the golden pyramid of Ferrero Rocher chocolates. It was a handsome young man in a perfectly normal tuxedo, but with a decidedly abnormal facial decoration; a skewer through his nose with two giant feathers adorning it. He tilted his head to one side, looked at her quizzically, ran his tongue over the tips of his teeth, and spoke.

"Hello, cutie."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	5. Chapter Five

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Five**

Kennedy Kennedy was trying to make small talk with Osvald Osvaldsson. It was proving to be something of a struggle, as for some reason they seemed to have taken an instant dislike to each other.

"So, what's it like being a rock star in Iceland?" Kennedy asked.

"Cool," Oz replied.

"You're the descendant of a famous berserker, right? You ever get the urge to rip off your shirt, and bite the edge of your shield, and charge at people with an axe?"

"Nope."

"You sure you speak English?"

"Yep."

"Ever use words with more than one syllable?"

"Sometimes."

Kennedy rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. She was about to give up her pretence at making conversation and wander off elsewhere when a figure caught her eye. A slim red-headed girl with an enchanting quirky smile. Her red ball gown did nothing for her; the big puffy taffeta skirt and soft fuzzy top made her look rather like a Muppet Barbie. Kennedy wanted to see what the girl would look like without it. The redhead had a companion, a mousy blonde who was pleasant looking but not spectacular, whose gown was a garish shade of metallic green that was entirely wrong for her colouration; indeed it would be wrong for anyone's colouration unless they were auditioning for the role of the Incredible Hulk in drag. Kennedy ignored her and stared lustfully at the redhead.

As did Oz. "Who is that girl?" he breathed reverently.

"You'd better mean the blonde," Kennedy warned him.

"No, I mean the girl with red hair," Oz told her. "You can try for the blonde."

"Toss you for it," Kennedy suggested. "Loser runs interference by going for the mousy one."

"Okay," agreed Oz, feeling in his pocket for a coin.

Kennedy grabbed his arm, spun, and flipped him to the floor. "You lose," she said triumphantly.

Oz climbed to his feet. "All right, you win. But that was not fair. You are making me angry, and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

"What, you get all ravening beast and bite your shield and charge?"

"No, I just get really sarcastic."

o o o o o

"You should come with me to the geyser country," Anya suggested. "I think you will like it. There are hot wet holes, and mighty peaks, and boiling jets spurting up."

Xander slipped his finger under his bow tie and tugged at it. "Sounds pretty, uhh, geothermal. Is it just me or is it hot in here?"

"And then," Anya went on, "I could show you the original site of our ancient Parliament at Thingvellir. It is on the boundary between the European and American tectonic plates."

Xander relaxed, and took his hand away from his neck.

"They are moving apart to form the Graben," Anya continued. "A lush, damp, cleft, parting slowly. Deep, and moist, and steamy."

Once again Xander began to have some difficulty with his breathing.

o o o o o

Giles found himself trapped in conversation with Ambassador Quentin Travers, unable to make his escape. For the moment Ethan was keeping Drusilla occupied, plying her with drinks and a constant stream of flattery, but already she was showing signs that she was growing bored; and dreadful things tended to happen when Drusilla got restless. The memory of the incident with the anaconda, the gold miner, and the three porcupines still sometimes caused Giles to wake in a cold sweat.

"I don't know how you cope with the isolation and the primitive conditions," Travers was saying.

"It can be something of a strain, yes," Giles agreed. "One of the worst things to endure is the constant sound of the jungle drums. All day, all night, pounding away incessantly. The only thing that enables me to stand it is the certain knowledge that when the drums stop there will be something worse."

"What's that?" Travers asked. "A massacre?"

"No," Giles told him. "Bass solo."

o o o o o

"Uh, hi," Buffi responded to the handsome stranger's greeting. "I was just, uh, stretching my legs."

Spike raised an eyebrow and looked at the unconscious Olaf sprawled on the ground. "Take it he got in the way? Bloody brilliant spin kick. Even my sister couldn't have done it better." He made his way to the whaler, seized him by the arms, and dragged the body to the side of the room and pushed it under a table.

"Thanks," Buffi said. She looked him up and down. Whipcord slim, rakishly handsome, exotic, and obviously extremely strong judging by the ease with which he had manhandled the massive Olaf. "Are you with one of the Embassies? Venezuela, Brazil, somewhere like that? What's your name?"

"I am Brazilian," Spike announced proudly, "but not from the Embassy. I am the son of the chief of the Jivaro. I have many names; but in Portuguese I am Guilherme o Sagrento, and in English I am Spike. My own people call me the Slayer of Jaguars."

"Hey, I get called the Slayer too," Buffi smiled. "From the martial arts, you know? But actually I'm the Prime Minister. I'm in charge of the Icelandic Parliament. It's a Thing."

"I know," Spike told her. "I saw you in Newsweek, and I have travelled thousands of miles to meet you. Right bloody knackering trip it was too. Looks like you were worth it."

"What, you travelled all that way for an autograph?" Buffi teased. "I guess maybe you're after a bit more than that."

"Yeah, I am," Spike confirmed, "but you'll have to wait for Saturday to find out the full story."

"Why, what happens Saturday?"

"I kiss you."

o o o o o

"Look, you seem a pretty nice guy, but wasting your time here," Tara told Oz. "We're gay."

Kennedy grinned at Oz and drew a score mark in the air, and then turned her attentions back to Willow.

"And hey, I'm in a committed long-term relationship," Willow informed Kennedy. "Not interested in dating anyone else. I'm totally devoted to Tara."

Now it was Oz's turn to grin and draw a score mark at Kennedy. She stuck her pierced tongue out at him. Her continued efforts to make an impression on Willow proved futile, and the two Greenpeace girls made their excuses and left at the first possible opportunity.

"Looks like we're stuck with each other, then," Oz said.

"Hey, I'm not that desperate," Kennedy said haughtily. "Plenty more fish in the sea."

"Only if we take measures now to protect the fish stocks," the Icelander said, deadpan.

"It's an American expression," Kennedy explained, with a roll of her eyes. "I didn't mean actual fish." She spotted the twinkle in Oz's eye and suddenly broke into a broad smile. "You're deeper than you seem, aren't you?

"I don't know," Oz replied. "How deep do I seem?" He smiled. "And you are nicer than you seem."

"Thanks. Hey, are you starting to think that it's a pity I'm gay?"

Oz lowered his eyebrows a millimetre and seemed to be thinking hard. "Well, you are a very pretty girl. You have nice boobies and a nice ass, and maybe you do not have as much of a stick up it as I thought at first. Yes, it is a pity you are gay."

"Hey, I'll let you into a secret," Kennedy said, her smile turning impish. "The gay thing? Truth is, I just hate it when someone I'm dating is taller than me. I like people under five foot five, and that means mainly I date girls."

Oz moved closer to her and put his hand flat on his head, and then moved it across to connect with a point a couple of inches below the top of hers. He did a quick calculation from metres. "Five foot four," he announced.

"Okay, you qualify. Wanna dance?"

o o o o o

Drusilla was beginning to fidget. Ethan's conversation had palled on her, and she was looking around the room with her eyebrows lowered. Giles sought desperately for a way to excuse himself without offending the British Ambassador.

An unlikely saviour arrived in the nick of time. An anxious-looking woman in a high necked and severe dress, glasses perched insecurely on her nose. "Oh, Mr Travers," she twittered. "I'm afraid we have something of a problem."

"I'm in the middle of a conversation with a distinguished scientist here, Lydia," Travers told her, frowning. "What is it?"

"It's Herr Feigenbaum, the German Ambassador," Lydia replied. "There appears to have been some sort of an error with his invitation."

Travers turned and scowled at the slumped body of Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. It had been the British Embassy's turn to host the Ambassadors' Ball this year, and the Cultural Attaché had been one of those with the responsibility for ensuring that everything went smoothly.

"Ah, I'll just escort this lady to look for her brother," Ethan said, his expression turning shifty, and he began to sidle off.

"Wait a minute, Rayne," Travers ordered. "What sort of error, Lydia?"

Lydia's hands fluttered. "Well, just look, Mr Travers." She gestured across the room.

A giant rabbit stood there, flanked by a medieval knight and the Bride of Frankenstein. The rabbit was waving his arms furiously. "This is an insult!" Herr Feigenbaum spluttered from inside the rabbit costume. "Incompetence, or perhaps malice! My invitation distinctly stated Fancy Dress!"

o o o o o

"So, you kiss me Saturday, huh?" Buffi said. She looked at her watch. "That's about an hour and a half away. What makes you think I'll let you?"

"Oh, sod it," Spike exclaimed, took her in his arms, and pressed his lips to hers.

There were at least six ways Buffi could have broken his grip or thrown him from that position. Instead she responded eagerly. This fascinating stranger was the most exciting man she'd met in a very long time, and she met his kiss hungrily. Her heart pounded and she felt as if she was melting in his embrace.

Eventually they released each other. Buffi sucked in a long breath and looked up at him through lowered eyelashes. "So, what happened to Saturday?"

"What can I say? I couldn't wait." He drew her close and kissed her again.

**To be continued …**

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	6. Chapter Six

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Six**

Ambassador Harris frowned at Angle and Riley. "This isn't working out like it should. I don't trust that girl. She's not what we'd like to have running a country which is going to have one hell of a strategic importance if Putin starts throwing military weight around. Sommersdottir seems to want our bases out of Iceland. She's a loose cannon, too many pinko liberal beliefs, anti-war – hell, she's positively un-American!"

"She's an Icelander, Ambassador," Riley Finn pointed out. "She's allowed to be un-American."

"Humph!" the Ambassador sniffed. "I don't trust her. I want her fixed up with a good old American boy so that we can keep her under our thumb. It should have been one of you two, but you've both made a mess of it. And my good-for-nothing son went after her secretary instead."

"If she won't sleep with me she must be a lesbian," Riley declared.

"Hey, she's no lesbian," Angle contradicted him. "I've positive proof of that."

"Maybe you were so bad that you turned her off men," Riley suggested.

Angle glared at Colonel Finn and stuck out his jaw.

"Lesbian, huh?" Ambassador Tony Harris mused. "In that case, maybe I should aim Kennedy Kennedy at her instead."

"She a lesbian?" Angle asked, sounding puzzled.

"Secretary for Gay Issues, lesbian as they come," the Ambassador replied.

"You sure?" Angle queried. He pointed to the dance floor, where Kennedy and Oz were dancing cheek to cheek. Ambassador Harris looked with some surprise as the music stopped and, instead of separating, the young couple pulled each other into an even closer embrace and locked their lips together passionately.

"This is some new definition of 'lesbian' that I wasn't previously aware of," Riley remarked. "I think your plan is going to need a rethink, Ambassador."

o o o o o

"An outrage," Herr Feigenbaum complained. "Is this some kind of joke? Someone on your staff thinks that it is funny to embarrass the Germans?"

Travers fumed inwardly at the guilty party on his staff and resolved to ask Ethan Rayne some very pointed questions later. His attempts to soothe Feigenbaum's ruffled feelings met with little success until the arrival of one of the Americans.

"Why, Herr Feigenbaum," the new arrival greeted, "Ain't that just the cutest costume? I do declare it makes all the other men in their tuxedos just look so boring." Dr Winifred Burkle, known as Fred, was on the US Embassy roster as a Scientific Attaché, although the other diplomats strongly suspected that her true role lay with the NSA or the CIA. She was also an extremely pretty girl, whose broad smile and easy charm had made her a favourite in the diplomatic community in Reykjavik, and Feigenbaum was instantly disarmed.

"You like rabbits?" he asked, his scowl turning into a smile.

"I just love bunny rabbits," the Texan scientist confirmed. "You look just so charming like that, I just want to stroke your fur and feed you tacos."

"I don't know if the British have supplied any tacos," Feigenbaum said.

"I'm sure there are tacos here somewhere, I just have to find them," Fred said confidently. "Want to come with me and look?" She crooked her arm. The German Ambassador took it and they walked off happily. His aides, the medieval knight and the Bride of Frankenstein, trailed along behind looking distinctly unhappy; but their feelings were of little consequence as long as the Ambassador was content.

Travers wiped his brow. "Thank heavens for Dr Burkle," he sighed. "Where did Rayne go?"

"I don't know, Mr Travers," Lydia replied. "He was here a moment ago. He must have left with that other gentleman and the, umm, girl in the, umm, revealing dress."

o o o o o

"Why did you do it, Ethan?" Giles asked.

Ethan bit back the denial that had risen automatically to his lips, and smiled ruefully at Giles. "Couldn't resist it, old chap. The chance to spread a little chaos, take a rise out of that stuffy German Ambassador, and get my own back on Admin for palming some of their work off on me. Very much the same reasons as persuaded me to help you get a couple of head-hunters into the ball."

"I thought you were doing this as a favour to me," Giles said. "For which I have paid you well."

"Indeed, Rupert, and I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't been an old friend, but it's the kick I'm getting out of it that was the deciding factor. Although if I'd had a preview of the lovely Drusilla's dress I'd have done it for half the price."

"Do you like my dress? Rupert bought it for me," Drusilla smiled.

"Hired," Giles interjected.

"It is a pretty dress, isn't it?" Drusilla pirouetted, raising her arms, and Ethan gasped for breath and clutched at his chest. "But we could have dressed as animals."

"Not really," Giles said. "That was just a joke. A trick."

Drusilla ignored his comment. "I could have been a jaguar. Rupert could have been a bear, like the ones in the mountains, with the spectacles."

"Right now I feel as if I belong in the Home for Retired Bears in Lima," Giles muttered in agreement.

"You could have been a monkey. A naughty, tricksy, monkey," Drusilla told Ethan, who grinned at her in reply. "And Spike could have been an anteater."

"An anteater?" Giles echoed, puzzled.

"Because of his tongue," Drusilla clarified. "Or a tapir, because of his great big –"

"No, a jaguar or a giant otter," Giles broke in.

"A tapir? His nose isn't that big," Ethan remarked.

"She's not talking about his nose," Giles informed him.

"Ah," Ethan said. "She does have rather a, shall we say, refreshing take on things, doesn't she?"

"Oh, dear lord, where's she off to now?" Giles said anxiously, suddenly realising that Drusilla had lost interest in the conversation and was wandering off by herself.

"She's heading for the Germans," Ethan observed. "Looks like they might be in for a bit more chaos than I'd expected."

o o o o o

"We have to stop," Buffi insisted. "I have responsibilities. I must mingle. Greet the Ambassadors and other diplomats. I have been away from the party for too long."

"Okay, let's go," Spike agreed.

"Not together," Buffi told him. "It would be too distracting, and would cause too much comment. I think you should go now. We can meet tomorrow."

They were interrupted at that point by the arrival of Anya, who was waving her hands in an agitated fashion and trailing a perplexed looking Xander behind her. "Buffi!" Anya exclaimed. "The German Ambassador has done something horrible. You have to get rid of him. Declare war on Germany or something."

"Why?" Buffi asked. Beside her Spike tensed ready for action. She looked around the room anxiously. "I can't declare war on Germany. We haven't got an army or an air force, and our only navy is our Fisheries Protection vessels. What has he done?"

"He's dressed as something loathsome," Anya explained. "Vile, and horrible, and scary."

"She your friend? I could cut the bloke's head off for you if you like," Spike offered.

"Yes, cut the nasty bunny's head off," Anya agreed, beaming.

"A world of no," Buffi protested. "You can't go cutting the heads off Ambassadors."

"Why not?" Spike asked, his brows wrinkling.

"It's prohibited by the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations," Buffi explained. "Article 29."

"Doesn't the Convention prohibit the Head of Mission from insulting the Receiving State by attending formal functions dressed as a vile and revolting animal?" Anya frowned.

Buffi's lips moved as she ran through the provisions of the Convention. "Only if he's being paid to wear the bunny suit," she said at last. "That would contravene Article 42."

"So, if I can prove that Hugh Heffner has bribed him, does that mean your friend could cut his head off?" Anya asked eagerly.

"There will be no cutting off heads at the Ambassadors' Ball," Buffi declared firmly. "I shall speak to Herr Feigenbaum. I'm sure there must be some reasonable explanation."

Anya pouted. "Cutting his head off would be simpler. Who is your friend, Buffi?"

"Uh, this is, uh, Guilherme from Brazil." She stumbled a little over the Portuguese pronunciation.

"Call me Spike," the Brazilian said helpfully.

"Okay, this is Spike. He, uh, I suppose you could say he's a fan."

"So that's why he has the two feathers sticking from his nose?" Xander suggested.

Buffi stared at him uncomprehendingly, as did Spike, but Anya choked back a laugh.

"Or did he have a head on collision with a bird going at one hell of a speed?" Xander went on. "Man, I so don't want to be around when he pulls that sucker out."

o o o o o

"Are you the bravest knight in all the land?" Drusilla asked, smiling sweetly.

The German Military Attaché leered at her from behind his helm. He had been feeling distinctly depressed; being Military Attaché to a country devoid of armed forces was a thankless task anyway, and coming to the function in fancy dress and then finding that formal wear was de rigueur was acutely embarrassing, but suddenly things were looking up. He clicked his heels and came stiffly erect as his eyes locked on Drusilla's cleavage. "Ja. I am Heinrich Nest. Can I get you a drink?"

"Can I handle your weapon?" Drusilla requested, extending her hand. Nest gulped, wriggled uncomfortable, and then drew out his blade. Drusilla stared at his sword and her smile was replaced by a pout. "Your sword isn't real. It's nasty plastic, not fantastic."

"Ja, it is not real," Nest admitted. "This is a party, not a battle. But I am a master swordsman."

"What use is a sword if you can't cut off heads?" Drusilla complained. She tossed her head, turned on her heel, and walked away to rejoin Giles and Ethan.

Nest watched her go, his eyes riveted to her buttocks, and then sighed. He took off his helmet and began to wipe drool from the inside with the sleeve of his knitted chain-mail tunic. The prospect of an entertaining evening was gone and he was plunged once more into gloom and despondency. Oh well, perhaps he could find someone with whom to pass the evening discussing Blitzkrieg and Panzer warfare. Perhaps the Uzbek ambassador, Turok Khan?

o o o o o

"Is he going to give you orgasms?" Anya asked, looking from Buffi to Spike.

"Yes," Spike declared firmly. "Lots of them."

"Oh, good. She's been working much too hard. She needs to relax."

"Uh, we hadn't really discussed it," Buffi said. "I've only just met him."

"What's to discuss? Apart from, 'Your place or mine?' Go to it, girl," Anya urged.

Buffi blushed and lowered her eyes. "I really have to start mingling," she told Spike. "We could meet up tomorrow. Would you like to swim with me in the Blue Lagoon?"

"Well, yeah, except for the part where I'd freeze to death," Spike replied. "It's a bit bloody cold for swimming."

"We Icelanders are tough, we swim outdoors even in the winter," Buffi teased.

Spike grimaced, but then set his jaw determinedly. "If you're going to do it, then I'll have a bash," he said.

"The water is hot," Buffi assured him. "We will be warm and comfortable."

"I could come too, with Xander," Anya suggested. "I've been wanting to show him something hot and wet and steamy."

"Uh, yeah," Xander agreed, tugging at his collar once more.

"I'll have to check that my parents don't have anything arranged," Anya went on. "Have you seen my father around, Buffi?"

"Not for a while," Buffi replied, restraining herself with some difficulty from looking at the table under which Olaf's unconscious body was stashed. "Come on, let's return to the party." She took hold of Spike's arm to lead him away.

"See, there is the golden pyramid," a new voice announced. Drusilla, Giles, and Ethan had at last caught up with Spike. "Miss Edith was right. There is the Slayer. And there you are, my darling, deadly, boy."

**To be continued …**

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has been leaving reviews; I'm afraid I don't know how to reply to reviews on fanfiction dot net, but they are appreciated.

**Chapter Seven**

Tony Harris thumbed through '_Diplomacy For Dummies_' and muttered to himself. "Brazil. Hmm. President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva. Chaired the 'Action Against Hunger And Poverty' conference. Friend of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez. Dammit, he's a pinko." He lifted his head and frowned at Riley Finn. "We don't want President Sommersdottir linked to pinko Brazilians."

"She's the Prime Minister, not the President," Riley corrected him. "Just because this guy she's taken up with is a Brazilian doesn't mean he's going to be a Commie as well. It was the Brits who brought them to the reception, remember? He might be a good old capitalist cattle rancher."

"He's an Indian from the rain forest, dumbass," Kennedy said with an air of calm superiority. "He'd chop the heads off cattle ranchers if he got the chance. They're the enemy."

"Which reminds me, you seem to be doing a bit of sleeping with the enemy your own self," Ambassador Harris frowned. "You. That guitarist friend of Sommersdottir's. He's a guy."

"Yeah, I had noticed," Kennedy replied, rolling her eyes.

"Well, you're supposed to be the Secretary for Gay Issues," the Ambassador pointed out. "What are you doing with a guy? Are you looking to lose your job?"

"I like short people. He's short. And cute and funny and good with his tongue. What's not to love? And, about the job, are you seriously thinking of giving me the push for being _straight_? That's gonna go down about as well under this administration as Monica Lewinsky did under the last." She stared levelly into the Ambassador's eyes until he looked away.

The Ambassador shuffled uncomfortably. "Anyway," he said, "we need to do something about the Prime Minister's boyfriend. My no-good son's liaison with her secretary is coming in handy after all. I hear she's meeting this Brazilian at the Blue Lagoon lunchtime. Get along there and see what you can do to torpedo the relationship before it gets under way."

Riley frowned. "I'm not trained in Naval ops," he said. "You need a Seal for that."

Kennedy grinned. "Or a walrus?"

o o o o o

"Bloody cold," Spike muttered nervously. "Dunno if I could bear going in the water."

Buffi laughed. "The water is warm. It comes out of the ground boiling hot. We use it to generate power, and to run the heating for the city, and then it comes out into this lagoon still nice and warm. You will like it. It is as warm as your Amazon river."

"Got any caymans in it?" Spike asked.

"What are caymans?" Buffi asked.

"Sort of crocodile," Spike explained.

"No, no caymans," Buffi assured him.

"What about piranha? Got any of them?"

"No, we have no piranha in Iceland," Buffi replied with a smile.

Spike frowned. "You poor sods. Would you like some?"

o o o o o

Giles tried to avoid looking at Drusilla but his eyes kept being drawn inexorably back towards her. Her bikini was miniscule. Only to be expected, he supposed; she was Brazilian, after all. He slipped hastily into the water where the physical signs of his appreciation would be less obvious. A score of Icelandic males followed his example for the same reason.

Drusilla stood at the side of the water and stretched. One young man gasped, went bright red, and dived under the surface. A portly man in his fifties collapsed clutching his chest and sank. The lifeguard who should have rushed to his assistance stood stock still, mesmerised, until a woman shouted at him and kicked him into action. Eventually Drusilla entered the water and the men of Reykjavik rediscovered the ability to turn their heads.

She swam to join Giles with an easy graceful stroke, as at home in the water as a giant otter. "Lovely warm water," she remarked. "The volcano gods smile upon us."

"Umm, quite," Giles responded. "A much more pleasant manifestation than if they had chosen to incinerate us with a pyroclastic flow, I must say."

"Should we move closer to Spike?" Drusilla suggested.

"I do think that we should give him some space," Giles said. He frowned. "Unless it is still your attention to disrupt this potential relationship?"

The corners of Drusilla's full lips drooped. "No, I accept that it is the will of the spirits," she sighed. "I had thought that once he met her face to face he would realise that she was not worthy of him, but when I saw her I realised that she is indeed special. Spike is lost to me. The Slayer is all over him."

"Yes, she is, isn't she? I'm not sure what Iceland's laws are regarding public displays of affection in the geothermal pool, but they're probably in danger of breaking them. I sincerely hope, for Miss Sommersdottir's sake, that there are no paparazzi present. Perhaps we should move closer after all."

"We should. Miss Edith has warned me that there is danger and I must protect them."

"Danger?" Giles shook his head. Everything was peaceful and placid. How could there be danger in a place like this?

o o o o o

Riley wasn't an expert swimmer. He could get from point A to point B without drowning, but that was about all. His initial surveillance of the Brazilian guy disconcerted him slightly. The South American could swim like a fish. Buffi seemed to be impressed, dammit. Making the guy look like a dork wasn't going to be easy.

Okay, time to fall back on plan B. He readied the underwater camera and moved in.

o o o o o

Spike dived, swam underwater on his back, thrust his head between Buffi's legs, and surfaced with her legs over his shoulders.

"You're beneath me," she spluttered happily, waving her arms to keep her balance. "But shouldn't you be the other way round?"

"Mmmph!" Spike replied. His words were muffled because his face was pressed tight up against her belly. His hands were supporting her bottom to prevent her falling.

"I know this is fun," she said as sternly as she could manage, "but it would look very bad if anyone took pictures and they appeared in the newspapers. It is not an appropriate way for a Prime Minister to behave."

"Mmmph sod them mmmph!" Spike mumbled.

'Perfect,' Riley thought, and raised the camera. There was something hanging from it, obscuring the lens, and he frowned. He pulled away the obstruction. A scrap of bright pink cloth, in the shape of a couple of tiny triangles and some slender straps.

"Eeek!"

A piercing shriek rang out from just behind him, and he spun around. A beautiful dark haired girl stood there in the waist deep water, topless, her arms clutched defensively over her breasts. "Help!" she yelled. "That man has pulled off my top and now he is trying to take photos of me! Stop him!"

"Hey! What are you talking about?" Riley protested.

Burly Viking types loomed on every side, scowls on their faces. Fists were raised menacingly.

"I never touched her, I swear!" Riley said. The Icelanders looked at the camera held damningly in the American agent's hand and growled. "I know how it looks, but it's not like that! Really. I'm just trying to take embarrassing pictures of your Prime Minister, that's – oops. I shouldn't have said that, should I?"

o o o o o

Spike stood at the counter of the self service restaurant and scanned the menu board. There were no Portuguese translations of the dishes, only Icelandic and English, but he could read English reasonably well and so that wasn't a problem. Not that it would have been much of a problem anyway; the choice was somewhat limited.

'Cod and French Fries.' 'Smoked Cod'. 'Boiled Cod with Potatoes.' 'Boiled Cod and Rice'. 'Smoked Cod, Boiled Cod, Sauerkraut, and Salt Cod'. 'Cod, Potatoes, Cod, Cabbage, and Cod'. 'Cod Surprise'. 'Cod Pieces'. 'Crispy Cod Balls'. 'Cod Cheesecake'. He was beginning to see something of a pattern here.

Cod was obviously a favourite dish among Icelanders; but surely Buffi must be tired of it. He found a couple of non-Cod dishes hidden in obscure corners of the menu, made a choice, purchased the meals and returned to the table where Buffi was waiting.

"What are we having?" she asked, smiling broadly. She was enjoying just being an ordinary girl for the day.

"Thought you might be a bit fed up of cod," he replied. "I got a sole for you, Buffi."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	8. Chapter Eight

Here's another chapter of 'Savage Beauty', the strangest AU of all time. You probably all know the score by now; Spike is a Jivaro Indian from the Brazilian rain forest, Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland, Oz plays with 'Polar Bears Ate My Walrus', and Drusilla wears very revealing clothes.

You may have noticed that I've taken down all my other stories; that's because they included quotes of song lyrics. Sometimes just a line or two; but in the case of 'I am the Walrus' the song was quoted quite extensively, as the story treats it as a prophecy. I've taken no chances and removed everything in the light of this site's new policy; everything is on my website anyway, together with scores of other stories too risqué for this rather prudish venue.

**Savage Beauty Chapter Eight**

"Do you, um, have an adequate supply of money for the evening?" Giles asked.

Spike grinned at him. "No problem, mate. I'm sorted."

"Are you sure?" Giles pressed. He wasn't sure how well Spike had adapted to the concept of non-Brazilian currency, and he hoped that the Jivaro warrior wouldn't get a nasty shock when he was asked to pay a bill in Icelandic króna. "You are taking the Prime Minister out dining and dancing, she'll expect the best, and it may prove rather expensive."

"Told you I'm sorted," Spike assured him confidently. "There was a bloke came round the village a couple of weeks back buying giant otter pelts and he had a sodding great wad of American dollars. Everybody here seems to take dollars, no problem."

"Oh dear," Giles sighed, taking off his glasses and polishing the lenses. "Giant otters are a protected species. You really shouldn't have sold him any pelts."

"Didn't," Spike told him. "Like you said, protected species, so that made the bloke a criminal. His head should be the right size to make a pal for Miss Edith by the time we get back home." He cocked his head to one side and looked at Giles quizzically. "That was all right, wasn't it? Preserving our cultural traditions, innit? He didn't have much use for the dollars after that, so, waste not want not."

"Oh dear," Giles said again. "Um, what did you do with the rest of him?"

"Fed him to the piranhas, mate," Spike grinned cheerfully.

Giles heaved another sigh and replaced his glasses. "Do try not to kill anyone tonight, Spike. I assure you that it would not be a forward step in your courtship campaign."

"Don't worry, I'll behave," Spike promised. "The Icelanders seem like good blokes. Anyway, Buffi tells me they haven't got any piranhas."

o o o o o

"C'mon, Ahn," Xander wheedled. "Your boss won't mind Willow and Tara turning up at her night out. She was getting along with them fine before your father bust everything up last night."

Anya pursed her lips. "I don't know," she prevaricated. "Buffi seems quite smitten with this Brazilian man, I don't want to do anything that might spoil her chances of getting some orgasms."

"Willow and Tara have got tact," Xander assured her. "They won't break into any heavy make-out sessions. Go on, tell me where Buffi is going tonight. It was your dad who spoiled their shot at her at the Ambassadors' Ball, remember. Only fair if you help give them another chance."

"Oh, all right," Anya gave in, "but only as long as you do something for me in return."

"Yeah, sure, anything," Xander agreed. He saw a triumphant smile appear on Anya's lips and cringed inwardly. "Uh, what do you want me to do?"

Anya told him.

Xander went red. "Well, okay," he said, "sounds kinda, uh, interesting. But how am I going to get hold of a fireman's outfit, a set of handcuffs, a quart of spray cream, a drainpipe and a ferret in Reykjavik on a Saturday night?"

o o o o o

Olaf leaned on the bar and scowled into his beer. His cronies hung back nervously. One had already made the mistake of making a jesting remark about the bruise on the massive whaler's chin and had suffered for it, felled by a mighty blow from the huge right fist that was nicknamed 'Olaf's Hammer'. The others were taking pains to exercise lots of tact. A tall stranger walked into the tavern and made straight for Olaf; he also had bruises on his face, and the whalers tensed in anticipation of some violent action.

"Excuse me, are you Olaf Grimsson?" the stranger asked, in English.

Olaf turned a surly glare on the newcomer. "Who wants to know?"

"My name's not important," the stranger replied, "but I have a proposition for Olaf Grimsson that would be very much to his advantage."

Olaf straightened up to his full height. The stranger was tall, but the giant whaler made him look tiny. "You have found Olaf Grimsson, Mr Not Important. Tell me of your proposition."

The stranger drew close to Olaf and spoke quietly, so that the other whalers heard little of the conversation. They did see their leader accepting a thick wad of American dollars, however. Eventually the stranger left; Olaf drained his beer in one swallow and waved an arm to gather his cronies around him.

"Finish your drinks, men, and we will leave this place" he boomed. "Tonight we are going clubbing."

One of the whalers frowned, his expression indicating puzzlement. "But Olaf," he protested, "there will be no baby seals for a month."

o o o o o

Kennedy and Oz had arranged a double date for that night, and each had brought a friend. "Meet Faith Lehane," Kennedy introduced her companion. "Unarmed combat instructor at the Keflavik air base."

Oz and his band-mate cast appreciative eyes over the curvaceous brunette. "Pleased to meet you," Oz said.

"Yo, wicked cool meeting two of 'Polar Bears Ate My Walrus'," Faith smiled.

"This is Gunnar Karlsson," Oz said, gesturing towards the tall shaven-headed young man who accompanied him. "He is the rapper in the band, and we call him Gunn the Black."

"Like 'Erik the Red'? Old Viking name?" Kennedy guessed.

"Not exactly," Oz replied.

"Yo, how's it hangin'? Two foxy chicks and two real cool dudes, got a lot of style and a bad attitude, we gonna make a splash when we hit the 'hood," Gunn addressed them.

"Yeah, see what you mean," Kennedy said, as Gunn and Faith exchanged high fives.

The two men escorted the girls to their vehicle; a Dodge Ram SRT-10 Quad Cab pick-up truck. "Gunn's pride and joy," Oz told Kennedy. "He worked two seasons on a fishing boat trawling for flatfish to pay for it; he sold his sole for the truck."

o o o o o

The taxi departed, bearing Spike off to his rendezvous with Buffi, and Giles and Drusilla walked back into the hotel lobby. A man was sitting there with a newspaper raised to conceal his face; he lowered it and came to his feet as they approached. It was Ethan Rayne.

"Hello, Rupert old boy," he greeted Giles. "And the delightful Drusilla."

Drusilla beamed at him. "Miss Edith told me you would come," she said happily.

"I certainly hope so," Ethan smiled, and then his expression turned serious. "Your brother is in danger, you know."

"The spirits have warned me," Drusilla agreed. "Already I have foiled one evil plan."

"And without even killing anyone," Giles added, his tone approving.

"All I did was take off the top of my bikini, and some nice men did the rest," Drusilla explained.

"Shame I wasn't there to see that," Ethan lamented.

"Yes, it was funny," Drusilla giggled, missing Ethan's point completely. "They hit the nasty man lots of times."

Giles hastened to bring the conversation back to a more important topic. "What's this about Spike being in danger?"

Ethan glanced around the lobby before replying. "Word to the wise, old boy. The Yanks aren't too keen on Buffi Somersdottir taking up with a Brazilian. They're planning something to break the romance up before it even gets started, and they're not too fussy about how they do it. I wouldn't let him wander around by himself if I were you."

"And how do you know about this?" Giles asked.

Ethan tapped the side of his nose with a finger. "Hush hush, old boy. It might be that I have a friend in a certain department, or then again I might not."

"Or you might be in MI6 yourself, of course," Giles deduced. He frowned and adjusted his glasses. "Spike is eminently capable of taking care of himself, I know, but he's not on his own ground here. Perhaps we should keep an eye on him tonight after all."

Drusilla clapped her hands together. "We can all go out together," she said gleefully. "We shall have drinks, and dance, and bathe in the blood of Spike's enemies."

"I'm afraid you'll have to make do with only two of those activities, dear lady," Ethan advised her.

Drusilla pouted. "But I like dancing."

o o o o o

A sinister black van with tinted windows rolled to a halt and the three young CIA operatives inside scurried to their surveillance positions. "I have positive identification," Andrew Wells announced, checking an instrument reading. "Buffi Sommersdottir and the Brazilian. Probability ninety-seven per cent."

"One hundred per cent, dork," Jonathan Levinson corrected him. "How many Jivaro Indians with spikes through their noses are there in Reykjavik anyway?"

"There might be others," Andrew pouted. "A master spy must never take anything for granted."

"Can it, both of you," Warren Mears ordered. "I'm sending a report back to base." He switched on a microphone. "Rabbit One calling Agent Suomi. Targets are entering Karathús. Repeat, targets are entering Karathús."

"Acknowledged," Riley Finn's voice boomed from the radio. "Maintain position and await further orders. Over and out."

Jonathan pursed his lips. "That's just great, not. 'Maintain position and await further orders'. We could be stuck here all night, and I wanted to watch the Oscars."

"Oscars, schmoscars," Warren grinned, and flipped a switch. A monitor rose from the communications console. "We could watch them from here anyway. TV reception, not a problem. But I've got something better." Images appeared on the monitor. "Free cable porn."

o o o o o

The Dodge truck pulled up in the night-club's parking lot and the four young people disembarked. Kennedy gazed up at the illuminated sign above the club and frowned. "'Karathús'," she read. "Doesn't that mean, like, 'Karaoke house'? Okay, so I've been known to get up there and give 'I Will Survive' a shot, but only if I've gotten good and drunk first."

"It is a proper night club, very exclusive," Oz assured her. "The owner, Ljörn Diðriksson, started off with a karaoke club. He kept the name when he expanded, but now there is only karaoke on Mondays."

"Damn, and I like karaoke," Faith complained. She spotted something out of the corner of her eye and froze momentarily, and then moved close to Kennedy. "Don't look now," she whispered, "but the Company spook-mobile is parked over the road. What's up?"

Kennedy took a mirror from her purse and looked at the van while pretending to check her make-up. "Well, it could be the Ambassador trying to get something on me that he could use to fire me," she muttered, "but I'm betting it's something to do with his scheme to screw up Buffi Somersdottir's new romance. If it is, I'm gonna do my bit to mess with his plans. Hot chicks who do martial arts have got to stick together, right?"

"Right with you, sister," Faith agreed.

A car drew up nearby and disgorged another group of four; a young man and three girls. Kennedy relaxed. "Maybe it's okay," she said. "That's the Ambassador's son and his friends. The spooks might just be keeping an eye on them." She put the mirror away. "Okay, guys," she said. "Look out Karathús, here we come."

o o o o o

Ambassador Harris grinned broadly as Riley delivered his report. "Okay, we're in business," he said. "You two have your orders. Get to this Karathús place and move in on Sommersdottir and her Tarzan guy. Think you can handle it, Miss Chase?"

The beautiful, fashionably dressed, brunette smiled confidently. "He'll be putty in my hands," she assured him. "I'll split him off from the Slayer and leave the way open for Angle to move in."

"I'll do my part," Angle said with equal confidence. "Buffi is mine. She just needs to be reminded of that."

"Get moving, then," the Ambassador ordered. "The limo is waiting."

The pair exited. Ambassador Harris rubbed his hands together, gloating, and turned to Riley. "And then your whaler pals can beat this Spike to a pulp. Teach him not to stick his pierced nose in where it's not wanted." He opened a cigar case and took out a Cuban cigar. "I love it when a plan comes together."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Savage Beauty**

Summary: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

Sorry for the long delay, I've been working on other fics that won't appear here because they include unacceptable material such as sex, nudity, characters singing snatches of song lyrics, and gratuitous mentions of the Teletubbies. You can find some on my website and others on my LiveJournal; links to it on the website.

**Chapter Nine**

Cordelia Chase stalked back to her seat, her face frozen in a polite and meaningless smile. Once seated she allowed her face to assume an expression of humiliation and searing anger. "How dare he?" she snapped. "A mere primitive tribesman, and he turns down a chance that any normal man would kill for."

"Uh, maybe he just prefers blondes, Cordy," suggested the humble secretary who Cordelia had allowed to accompany her on this mission. The girl was stupid but occasionally useful, and her fawning adoration of the beautiful agent was usually a pleasant boost to Cordelia's self-esteem, not that it needed boosting in normal circumstances. "I mean, Buffi Somersdottir is blonde, and the guy came all the way from Brazil to see her. That's an awful long way. Even further away than Mexico, right?"

"She's hardly in my league," Cordelia sniffed. "She dresses like a student, despite her position."

"Well, when a guy's got a thing about blondes, there's not much you can do about it," said Harmony Kendall. "Hey, maybe he'd go for me? I've got the blonde hair and, hey, I'm totally better in the boobies department than the Prime Minister." She gazed across the crowded room at the handsome Jivaro Indian and sighed. "I could just totally eat him up. He's all sleek and lithe, sorta like a jaguar."

Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Feel free to try. Don't blame me if he shoots you down in flames."

"I totally will try my luck," Harmony said, and stood up. She unfastened a couple of buttons and trotted off towards Spike.

Cordelia drained her glass and gestured imperiously to summon a waiter. She lost sight of her companion for a moment as a seething throng of men surrounded her, all eager to ply her with drinks, and when she had dismissed the crowd with a few suitably cutting words she saw Harmony trudging dejectedly back to their table.

"What did I tell you?"

"You were right, I totally got shot down," Harmony said. "Hey, what's a candirú fish?"

Cordelia frowned and extracted a Palm Pilot from her purse. She keyed the word into its dictionary. "Eww!" she said, screwing up her face. "Why do you want to know?"

"Well, he said he could fancy a candirú fish more than me," Harmony said miserably.

Cordelia passed the device across to the blonde girl. Harmony read the definition, her eyes growing wide as she mouthed the words to herself. "It swims up your what?" she gasped in horror. "And then it sticks out spines and – eww!" She handed the computer back to Cordelia, her face pale. "That was just totally eww and double eww!" She sighed. "Guess he's never going to be my juicy jaguar."

o o o o o

"Strike one against the bad guys," Ethan said in a tone of satisfaction.

"Pardon? Did I miss something?" Giles gazed around, perplexed, but saw nothing out of the ordinary.

"You're really out of your environment here, aren't you, old boy? Still, I suppose I'd be rather at a loss among the tribes of the rain-forest. Those two girls who made futile attempts to distract Spike from Buffi. They're on the US Embassy staff."

"Oh." Giles fiddled with his spectacles. "I suppose they are quite attractive, if you like that sort of leggy American girl, but hardly capable of distracting Spike. The Americans obviously don't realize how determined Spike can be."

"You think they're attractive?" Drusilla pouted.

"Well, to some extent," Giles said. "Not in the same league as your delightful self, of course," he added. Keeping in Drusilla's good books was always a good idea, unless of course you wanted your spleen to be extracted and displayed as a trophy.

"That would hardly be possible, would it?" Ethan put in, smiling lecherously.

"Dear Giles," Drusilla said fondly. "And dear Ethan too. You are my brave and true courtiers." She looked at both of them in turn and ran her tongue lightly over her parted lips. "You deserve a reward. The bear can burrow where the jaguar cannot go, and the monkey can climb the tallest tree."

"Um, quite," Giles said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. Not only due to embarrassment, but he was experiencing the physical discomfort that often afflicted him in Drusilla's presence. He surreptitiously adjusted his position to ease the discomfort, and noticed Ethan doing the same thing. "I really doubt that the Americans will be able to do anything more to interfere with Spike and Miss Sommersdottir, not now they have been joined by such a large group of friends."

"Don't call her Miss Sommersdottir," Ethan advised. "The Icelanders don't go in for using their surnames that way. They tend to just look at you blankly as if they don't know who you mean. Call her Buffi Sommersdottir if you want to be really formal, otherwise just say Buffi."

"Doesn't that lack respect? After all, she is the Prime Minister."

"That makes no difference," Ethan told him. "The cultural attaché made the mistake of calling Björk 'Miss Guðmundsdóttir' when he was first here, and he was still being mocked for it months later."

"Ah, I see. I'll bear that in mind," Giles said. "My point still stands, however. We need have no fear for Spike's safety, as they are now in a large group. Isn't that the son of the American Ambassador?"

"That's right, old boy, your memory isn't failing you yet," Ethan said. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that he guarantees the safety of the party, however. Ambassador Harris is a Grade A bastard, I'm afraid, and he doesn't seem to have a lot of time for his son. Shame, really, young Xander is a pleasant and personable young man." Ethan raised his glass to his lips and then lowered it again without drinking. "Oh, dear. Looks like I was more right than I knew, old boy. Trouble. Here come the whalers."

"Really?" Giles peered around the room. "Didn't they break up when Bob Marley died?"

o o o o o

"Well, so much for Plan A," Angle commented, as he watched Cordelia's ignominious retreat. "I really thought that one would work. It makes it a bit harder for me to move in on Buffi."

"So, you'll just have to step in to protect her from the big bad whalers," Riley said. "You can play the big hero and have her eating out of your hand."

"I'm not happy about putting her in danger," Angle frowned.

"Come on, she's not going to get hurt," Riley said airily. "The chief whaler is her secretary's dad, for one thing, and for another she's the Prime Minister and he'd go to jail for sure if he hurt her. He's just going to throw enough of a scare into her to give you the chance to look good."

Angel stared at the party who were entering the club at that moment, and sucked in a long breath. "He's big. He's very big. I hope he knows the whole plan."

"What's the matter, scared?" Riley sneered. "You're the big Olympic champion, remember? Don't you think you can take him? Or do you need the crowd chanting? 'Angle U.S! Angle U.S!' I knew pro wrestling was fixed, didn't realise the same applied to the Olympics."

Angle flushed and clenched his fists. "Watch your mouth, Finn. It's going to get you into a lot of trouble."

"Hi, hope you're enjoying yourselves here at Karathús," a voice interrupted from behind the bar. Angle and Finn turned to see a hook-nosed man with very full lips smiling at them. "I'm Ljörn Diðriksson, owner of this establishment, and if there's anything I can do to make things more entertaining, just say. You don't seem to be drinking. Can I suggest a Sea Breeze? Speciality of the house. Any particular song you'd like to hear?"

Angle forced a smile to his face. The club owner looked disconcertingly intelligent, and had probably sensed the argument and moved in to break it up before it escalated. It wouldn't do to seem uninterested in the club's entertainment. He listened for a moment to the music blaring across from the dance floor, 'Where is the Love?' by Black Eyed Peas, and winced. "Got any Barry Manilow?"

o o o o o

Spike was a little uncomfortable as part of such a big group. They were all friendly enough, but they weren't part of his tribe, and it didn't feel natural to relax when outnumbered by strangers. Some of them were strangers to Buffi too, although she seemed to take to them easily enough. It put Spike on edge, and he stayed alert and vigilant. He spotted the approaching whalers long before anyone else.

The big man who Buffi had kicked unconscious at the Ambassador's Ball was unmistakable. He was heading towards her party, flanked by obvious henchmen, and Spike sensed danger. He got to his feet and moved to intercept the whalers. "Oi! You're the bloke who was giving Buffi stick at the ball, aren't you?" he challenged Olaf. "Don't bother her tonight. Friendly warning." His tone made it very clear that the warning was anything but friendly.

Olaf grinned delightedly. He could see his daughter in Buffi's group, and had been rather worried at the thought of starting a brawl in her vicinity with the attendant risks of Anya getting caught up in it and possibly coming to harm. Spike was making things easy for him. Especially if he could be tricked into striking the first blow and thereby reducing the chance of the whalers being prosecuted for assault. "I don't know what you mean, jungle man," Olaf boomed. "We are but hard-working fishermen, wishing only to speak up in defence of our livelihood."

"I'm a fisherman, tosser," Spike said coldly. "You're a machine operator. Paddle out in a canoe with a harpoon if you want to catch whales."

"You're a fisherman?" queried one of Olaf's henchmen, Dagur, a balding man who was a ship's doctor. "I don't smell a sole anywhere on you."

Spike ignored him. "You don't come near the girl," he said flatly.

Olaf smiled warmly. He'd done a little research in advance of this confrontation and knew the perfect way to provoke Spike while seeming to everyone around to be entirely innocent. "You misunderstand, my friend," he said. "We are all admirers of the Prime Minister. She is most," he held up his hand and gestured with his thumb and forefinger together in a circle, "delightful."

Throughout a large part of the world that hand formation signified 'excellent, fine, great'. In Brazil it was the most obscene and insulting gesture possible. Spike reacted instantly. He punched Olaf in the stomach with everything he had, his fist sinking wrist-deep into the muscled abdomen, brought up the heel of his other hand to meet Olaf's chin as the whaler doubled over, and followed up with a kick to the chest as Olaf staggered backwards under the impacts. Olaf crashed to the ground.

Spike grinned savagely as Olaf struggled to rise. "Come on, then, pillock, let's you and me have a go," he taunted. "This won't take long."

At that moment Dagur hit Spike across the back of the neck with a bottle and felled the Brazilian like a rain-forest tree. "No, I don't imagine it will," the whaler said triumphantly. Olaf scrambled to his feet, wheezing and clutching his stomach, his face contorted in rage and pain, and drew back his foot to kick the helpless Spike.

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Savage Beauty**

I think the summary is probably too crazy to have been forgotten even after all this time, but I'll repeat it anyway: AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

**Chapter Ten**

"Where's Spike?" Buffi wondered aloud. She scanned the vicinity of the bar, but there was no sign of him; she spotted Angle and Riley Finn, and her lips tightened. She hoped that they wouldn't come over to join her group; nothing good could come of that. Her gaze swept the crowd. She saw Spike's sister and the two British men who had brought the Brazilians to the Ambassadors' Ball, and she smiled at them briefly, before moving on to where she could see another familiar face. A less welcome one. Olaf and a group of his whalers.

Ah, there was Spike. Her eyes widened as she saw Olaf make a gesture at Spike that resulted in Spike unleashing a combination of blows and kicks that dropped the huge whaler in his tracks; and then she shot to her feet as she saw Olaf's crony Dagur strike Spike across the back of the neck with a beer bottle and send him to the floor.

"Excuse me!" she called, beginning to push her way past Anya and Xander. The group's conversation ground to a halt as they recognised Buffi's urgency, and eyes turned to follow her wide-eyed gaze.

Faith and Kennedy bounced to their feet. "Stay outa this, your Prime Ministerness," Faith urged. "Leave it to us." She drew a baton from under her jacket and laid it along her arm.

"They want to discredit you, getting you caught up in a brawl," Kennedy added. "We're pretty discredited already, so, no problem."

"But they'll hurt Spike," Buffy objected, even as the two American girls left the group to head for where Olaf was drawing back his foot to kick Spike.

"Father! Stop it!" Anya shouted.

Olaf ignored her call, and Faith and Kennedy were still too far away to intervene as the giant whaler unleashed a kick that would surely cave in the Jivaro warrior's ribs.

- - - - -

"Is your father a Chief?" Drusilla asked Giles, seemingly out of nowhere.

Giles blinked, taken aback. "I suppose you could say that," he said. "He recently retired from a rather successful career in the Air Force. Air Chief Marshall Sir Edward Giles, KCB. He's being considered for the post of Lieutenant Governor of the Isle of Man. I was rather a disappointment to the old chap, I'm afraid. He doesn't think much of anthropologists; says I might as well be a grocer."

Drusilla hissed, and Giles realised that she was no longer listening. He saw her lips pull back from her teeth in a primal snarl, and followed her gaze to where Spike had just been struck from behind by Dagur the doctor. "Good grief!" he exclaimed.

Drusilla snatched up a beer bottle, held it up to the light for a second, and took aim at the edge of the table. Outside of Hollywood breaking a glass bottle to create an edged weapon was a tricky operation, and most people doing it would end up with a bleeding hand full of broken glass fragments. Drusilla wasn't most people, and Giles knew that she was going to be holding a lethal six-inch dagger in a second's time. "No!" he snapped.

Drusilla met his eyes and lowered the bottle slowly. She cast it aside and leaped from her seat, and then hurtled across the floor towards Olaf.

"Phew!" Ethan gasped. "I'm impressed, Rupert. She obeyed you. I thought for sure that we were going to see a whaler flensed on the dance floor."

"We still might," Giles said grimly. "Did you think that the length of her fingernails was just for show?"

- - - - -

Olaf's kick never landed. Drusilla leaped from table to table, took off in a flying kick, and her foot hit him full in the face. Caught mid-kick and off balance the huge whaler couldn't withstand the impact and he toppled to the floor once more.

Drusilla landed feather-light on her feet beside the prostrate Spike, bending her legs to absorb the shock of landing, and kept on going down to duck under the blow that Dagur aimed at her. She came up again inside the arc of his swing, caught him by the striking arm and by his shoulder as if about to engage in the tango, butted him in the jaw, and swung her leg across to sweep his legs from under him. She twisted his arm and threw him as he fell, sending him sprawling sideways to crash into a pair of his comrades.

The whalers encircled her, growling angrily, and a couple of them rushed forwards throwing punches. Drusilla swayed aside, brought up a foot in a kick to one's face, and went all the way over with the motion to stand on her hands. She kicked the other one under the jaw with both feet and cart-wheeled away as the two whalers crashed to the floor and lay still.

"Capoeira," Giles remarked to Ethan. "The Brazilian martial art that resembles a dance. Drusilla's quite probably the greatest exponent in the world."

Ethan tugged at his collar and took a hasty gulp of his beer. "Certainly shows off her legs to advantage, doesn't it, old boy?" he commented. "I see she doesn't go in for Bridget Jones style big pants."

Giles sipped at his own drink as he watched Drusilla toss a whaler onto a table head first. "Well, she is Brazilian," he reminded Ethan. "I'm just glad she remembered to wear any at all."

Ethan scooped up an ice-cube from Drusilla's discarded drink and rubbed it across his forehead.

- - - - -

Spike was still down, the club's bouncers were holding back from intervening for the moment, and Drusilla was heavily outnumbered. Kennedy and Faith leaped into the fray to join her.

Kennedy grabbed a whaler called Runólf Birgirsson, punched him in the stomach, and elbowed him in the nose. Runólf reeled away to the nearest table, bloody-nosed, and drained a beer.

Faith caught the arm of a hulking whaler by the name of Magnús Magnússon, put him in a painful wristlock, and dragged him away from where he was manoeuvring to get behind Drusilla. "You're an American!" Magnús Magnússon protested.

"No shit, mastermind," Faith grinned. She spun him by the trapped arm and sent him stumbling back across the room to fall into a large black leather chair.

Spike clambered to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The biggest and toughest of all the whalers after Olaf, Elvar Þröstursson, tried to seize the opportunity to get in a shot at their primary target. He struck savagely at Spike's face.

Spike caught Elvar's arm mid-blow and wrenched it around savagely. He grabbed Elvar by the hair and pulled the taller man down to his level. "Getting bloody tired of this," Spike hissed into the Icelander's ear. "Get out now, and maybe I won't kill you." He twisted the arm harder, there was a cracking sound, and Elvar cried out in pain. Spike released the man and pushed him away. Elvar staggered off, clutching his elbow, and made for the club's exit.

Olaf regained his feet and looked around him. Half of his men lay winded or unconscious on the floor, and the rest were getting pounded by the two American girls, Drusilla, and now by Spike too. "What's going on?" he demanded of his nearest henchman. "Where is Elvar?"

"We are losing," the whaler informed his boss. "Elvar has left the building."

Olaf growled. "I will not be defeated! Who is with me?"

Magnús Magnússon came to stand at his shoulder, wiping blood away from a split lip. "I've started, so I'll finish," he declared.

"Who else?" Olaf asked. No-one answered. Runólf staggered from the fray, nose streaming with even more blood after a blow from Faith's baton, and collapsed in front of his boss.

"That's enough!" a voice boomed out from the PA system. "Everybody stop fighting now or I'm calling the police." Ljörn Diðriksson glared at the whalers. "Olaf Grímsson, I'm holding you responsible and I'll be sending you a bill for the damages."

"This man struck me first," Olaf protested.

A fiery blonde figure marched out onto the dance floor and stood in front of him with hands on her hips. "You have brought disgrace upon us, Father," Anya scolded. "Coming to this place and starting a fight, and in front of the Prime Minister! Mother will be ashamed of you. And you didn't even win! Oh, it's no use you trying to look tough now, Father. You are only succeeding in looking hairy and unattractive, and – pooh! – you are very smelly! Even the other whalers are repelled by your various odours."

"Silence, child," Olaf roared, striking a menacing stance.

Anya sniffed. "Your menacing stance is merely alarming, father, and your roar is less than full throated. Cease your posturing and agree to pay Ljörn for the damage."

"By God, Anya, you are an aggravating and emasculating daughter," Olaf grumbled. He looked at Xander, who had followed her out onto the floor. "I pity you, American, if you are serious about her."

Xander shrugged. "If I'm ever dumb enough to pick a bar fight against a guy who's that good at Kung Fu, her shouting at me will be the least of my worries."

"Very well, Ljörn, I shall pay your damages," Olaf grumbled. "Come, men, let us leave this place." The whalers gathered up their fallen, assisted by the bouncers, and beat an ignominious retreat.

- - - - -

With the whalers gone everyone returned to their seats and resumed their conversations. Buffi fussed over Spike, as did Willow and Tara who were delighted to see the whalers humbled, and Faith and Kennedy dragged Gunn and Oz out onto the dance floor.

"Fighting gets me hot," Faith confided to Gunn. "And hey, you get me hot too, 'cause you're wicked good looking."

"You are one lovely piece of hot girl yourself," Gunn grinned. "You like to come back to my place afterwards?"

"I could go for that," Faith agreed, and wriggled. "I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up. I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of. I could squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more."

"Sounds good to me," Gunn smiled. "And after that, maybe we could have pizza?"

- - - - -

A few feet away Kennedy and Oz could hear that exchange. "Faith's not exactly shy, is she?" Kennedy remarked. "I know how she feels, though. I wouldn't mind doing a few of those things to you. Want to get up close and personal with me later? Maybe get rid of a few clothes?"

"Maybe," Oz nodded.

"Kiss me all over, run your hands over my body, make me hot?"

"Yep."

"Take me to bed, stroke me, lick me, ride me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Make love to me until my eyes roll up in my head and I scream your name until I'm hoarse?"

"Okay."

"Mmm," Kennedy sighed. "I love it when you talk dirty."

- - - - -

At the end of the evening the gathering broke up into couples who left together, amorous intentions plain on their faces. "I doubt that Spike will be returning to our hotel suite tonight," Giles remarked, as the Jivaro and the Prime Minister left the club wrapped in each other's arms.

"The spirits tell me that Spike will have great joy tonight," Drusilla beamed, taking hold of Ethan's hand. "Shall we go back to our hotel?"

Giles raised his eyebrows at Drusilla's possessive gesture towards the other Englishman, but he didn't comment. "Very well," he said. "The Oscar ceremony should still be running on the television, perhaps we could watch it for a while?"

"Sounds good to me, old chap," Ethan agreed.

"Miss Edith would like that," Drusilla said. "She likes Leonardo diCaprio. But the spirits tell me that Jamie Foxx will win Best Actor."

"Should we have got some bets down?" Ethan wondered.

"Perhaps we should," Giles said. "Drusilla has proven to be remarkably prescient."

They made their way back to the hotel and switched on the television as soon as they entered the suite. Giles poured out some drinks, and Drusilla reclined languorously on the room's couch.

"The stars smile upon me," she murmured. "I see them smiling."

"I'm not sure that I understand you, Drusilla," Giles said. "We are indoors and the curtains are closed. How can you see the stars?"

"There they are, silly Giles," Drusilla pointed. "See, there is Zhang Ziyi, and Beoncé, and Clint Eastwood, and Gwyneth Paltrow."

Ethan laughed. "She put one over on you there, old boy."

"Ah, quite," Giles grinned ruefully, and sipped at his Scotch.

"Ethan, what is your father? Is he a magician?" Drusilla asked unexpectedly, her fingers toying with the buttons of her top.

"Good lord! How did you know that?" Ethan exclaimed. "Yes, he was, for many years. Rayne and Snow, the best magic act in the business. Well, not a bad act, anyway. Paid my way through Public School and into the Foreign Office, and I picked up a few useful tricks myself. Picking pockets and the like." He gazed admiringly at the beautiful Brazilian. "Remarkable that you should guess."

"The spirits revealed it to me," Drusilla informed him. She undid one of her buttons almost absentmindedly. "When I was but a child the oldest Wawek shaman drank the Natema potion and had a vision about me. He told me that I would one day reach bliss in the arms of the son of a Chief and the son of a magician. I thought that he meant Spike, for our father is a Chief and mother was a Pener Uwisin shaman before her illness grew too strong for her to heal." Her fingers continued to work their way down her buttons, revealing more and more smooth golden skin.

"Ah," Giles gulped. "Yes. Quite."

"But Spike is my brother, and I was wrong," Drusilla went on. She sat up, seized Ethan by the shoulders, and pulled him into a kiss. He didn't put up any resistance. "Do you like me, Ethan?"

Ethan had to swallow twice before he could answer. "Well, I'm not trailing around with you lot because of any unrequited lust for Rupert, that's for sure."

"Dear sweet Ethan," Drusilla smiled, and trailed her fingers across his cheek. She turned to Giles and pulled him into a passionate embrace. Their mouths locked together for a long moment, during which Ethan watched Beyoncé perform two numbers and Chris Rock crack two hundred and eight unfunny jokes, and then they pulled apart. "Sorry, I was in the moment," Drusilla giggled. "I can tell that you like me, Giles."

She stood up, and the last of her clothing dropped to the floor. The two men began to hastily fumble at their own buttons. Drusilla parted her lips and ran her tongue across them. "Be in me."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Savage Beauty**

It's been almost a month since I updated this, but I think that the summary is probably memorable enough to still be familiar; however I'll take no chances and I'll repeat it anyway.

AU, everybody's human, no vampires. Buffy is the Prime Minister of Iceland. Spike is a Jivaro head-hunter in the Brazilian rain-forest. Can they get together?

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed; I'm afraid I simply don't know how to reply to reviews on this site, or I would have done so.

**Chapter Eleven**

Spike came out of the bathroom and went down the stairs. Buffi had preceded him and she was in the kitchen, where she was talking to a good-looking woman in her forties and a pretty brown-haired girl in her late teens.

"This is my mother, Hjördís, and my sister, Dorúnn," Buffi introduced them. "Mom, Dorúnn, this is Spike."

"I am pleased to meet you, Spike," Buffi's mother greeted the Brazilian. "Would you like some breakfast? We have fried cod, boiled cod, salt cod, smoked cod, pickled cod, cod roe, or I could prepare you a cod omelette. You probably need something to restore your strength after last night." The corners of her mouth twitched upwards and she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Móðir!" Buffi exclaimed, and flushed. She spoke briefly to her mother in Icelandic.

"What?" Hjördís said, assuming an air of innocence. "I mean after the fight that you mentioned, of course."

"Like it wasn't totally obvious that you were having sex," Dorúnn said, rolling her eyes. "You totally owe me for waking me up. In fact you probably woke up everyone from here to Surtsey."

Buffi's flush deepened. She ignored her sister's comment and addressed Spike. "So, breakfast?"

"Omelette, please," Spike decided. He was slightly surprised at Buffi's mother's attitude. His knowledge of Western customs was garnered almost entirely from movies, and he had expected that the energetic and extremely noisy lovemaking during the night would have resulted in a very frosty reception from Buffi's family. That would certainly have been the case in the USA or England, if the movies were an accurate portrayal of society. It obviously wasn't the case in Iceland.

"What do you eat back in the jungle?" Dorúnn asked, gazing at him with wide eyes.

"Cassava bread, piranha fish, chicken, tapir, peccary meat, agouti, armadillo, roasted giant spiders, that sort of thing," Spike told her.

"Giant spiders? Eww, gross!" Dorúnn sniffed loudly.

"Manners, Dorúnn!" Hjördís scolded. "Respect our guest's culture. After all, I'm sure that he would have the same opinion of Hakarl."

"Like I don't," Dorúnn retorted. "But at least it isn't spiders. And hey, I thought piranhas were supposed to eat people, not the other way round."

"Hakarl?" Spike queried.

"Greenland Shark, buried underground for six months," Hjördís told him. "We traditionally eat it washed down with Brennevin – mint Schnapps. To take the taste away."

"I'm not sodding urprised," Spike muttered.

"I thought it was to get us too drunk to think about what we were eating," Buffi said.

"That too," Hjördís agreed. "Hakarl is not for breakfast. I shall just make the omelettes." She turned her attention to the stove.

"That spike through your nose is totally cool," Dorúnn commented. "Does it hurt?"

"A Jivaro warrior does not notice pain," Spike told her.

"Cool!" Dorúnn exclaimed.

"Shouldn't you be on your way to class?" Buffi reminded her sister.

"Okay, okay," Dorúnn said. "I'm on my way." She snatched up her bag. "See you later. Nice to meet you, Spike."

"Nice kid," Spike remarked after Dorúnn had departed. "Looks like you, only much taller."

"That's because her father was much taller than Buffi's," Hjördís told him, as she dished out omelettes. Spike raised one eyebrow in silent query. "Buffi's father was a Danish fisherman, Sommer Christensen," Hjördís went on. "A lovely man, but he was very short. Dorúnn is my daughter by Boleslav Prazsky, a Czech engineer. He was very tall. And he had an immense –"

"Móðir!" Buffi interrupted.

"An immense knowledge of hot water pumping systems, I was going to say," Hjördís continued, her eyes twinkling. Buffi relaxed. Hjördís grinned. "He was like a stevedore in the sack." Buffi winced.

"So, the young one's Dorúnn Boleslavsdottir?" Spike asked, checking that he had got the hang of the Icelandic system.

"That's right," Hjördís confirmed. She looked Spike up and down appreciatively. "And if you got Buffi pregnant last night, the child will be Spikesdottir or Spikesson."

Spike coughed out a piece of omelette.

Buffi rolled her eyes at her mother. "Please, Mom, not now."

Spike hastily gulped down some orange juice. "Spike's not my real name," he pointed out. "'S just what Rupert calls me, 'cos of the spike in my nose. More pronounceable than my Jivaro name for you white people."

"And your real name is?" Hjördís prompted.

"I have many names. Among my people the Shuar, known to the whites as the Jivaro, I am Anank-Tshuin-Yerush. To the English, I am Spike. Spike am I also to the Americans. To the Brazilians I am Guilherme o Sagrento. In Equador and Peru I am Guillermo el Sangriento. To Bolivia I go not. Too bloody high, innit?"

Hjördís blinked at his recitation. "I think that I'll stick to Spike."

- - - - -

Quentin Travers stared severely at Ethan. "Good lord, man," the British Ambassador said sternly, "you look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards. Two hedges."

"More like the Amazon jungle," Ethan muttered under his breath. "Sorry, sir," he said aloud. "It's been a rough weekend."

"Indeed." Travers frowned. "Do stand up straight when I'm talking to you. That slouch gives a very bad impression." He peered at Ethan and his frown deepened. "Are those bites on your neck?"

Ethan pulled himself up straight, winced, and sagged again. "Shaving burns," he claimed. "I was a little over-enthusiastic with the razor this morning."

"The Americans aren't happy with you, Rayne. Those two Brazilians that you brought along to the Ball seem to have caused them no end of trouble. It appears that the whole American policy in the area may be in jeopardy." Travers smiled suddenly. "Fine work, Rayne. Keep it up."

- - - - -

"So what went wrong?" Ambassador Tony Harris growled. "I thought we had a plan. How come nothing worked out? You were supposed to split the Brazilian off from the herd, Chase. Kinda failed, didn't you?"

"You could say that," Cordelia agreed. "But hey, if the guy's too dumb to know a good thing, what was I supposed to do? March him off at gunpoint?"

The Ambassador didn't answer. He turned to Riley. "What's your excuse, Finn?"

"I didn't know that the Brazilian's sister was hell on wheels at unarmed combat," Riley explained. "She kicked the whalers' asses and got her brother out of the fix. Then Kennedy joined in, her and that E-4 friend of hers from the Keflavik base, and there was no chance of the whalers ever getting near Buffi Sommersdottir after that. No chance for us to step in and play hero."

"I'm gonna kick that part-time dyke's ass right back to the States," Tony Harris snarled. "What the hell does she think she's playing at? Just whose side is she on?"

"Don't get rid of her," Cordelia suggested. "We can use her. Just make sure she hears what we want her to hear."

Tony Harris smiled for the first time since the meeting had started. "Disinformation. Yeah, I like that idea. We let slip some things to her, some things to my no-good son, and we can point Sommersdottir just where we want her to look. Sucker-punch them with the real move."

"Speaking of which," Riley put in, "I know somebody we can point right at the Brazilians. Somebody much tougher than any bum whaler."

Ambassador Harris raised his eyebrows. "Go on."

"Marine Master Sergeant Robin Wood," Riley went on. "Unarmed combat instructor. Black belt twice over. And," he grinned fiercely, "he's the son of missionaries who were killed by Jivaro Indians back in nineteen seventy-seven. Killed and had their heads shrunken. He hates South Americans. I mean he really hates them."

"Enough to kill?" Tony Harris asked.

"Oh, you know about that scandal in Colombia that got him transferred up here, then?"

"I didn't," the Ambassador grinned, "but I do now. I like it. Good man, Riley, you've redeemed yourself. Get this Robin Wood over here ASAP. Oh, and find him a few merry men."

- - - - -

Spike walked through Reykjavik in the direction of the hotel. Buffi had work to do and had gone to her office, and, although her mother had assured Spike that he would be welcome to stay at the house until Buffi was free, he didn't yet feel comfortable in such surroundings and had declined the offer. Also he wanted to check that Drusilla was all right after the fight the preceding night.

He paid no attention to the black van that cruised past him several times; in the jungle he would have immediately been aware that he was being followed, but the city was an alien environment and it never occurred to him that there was anything odd going on. One vehicle was much the same as any other as far as he was concerned.

He was keenly aware of the pedestrians in his vicinity, however, and spotted the hulking figure of Olaf long before the whaler spotted him. He briefly considered changing his course to avoid the huge Icelander, but rejected the thought as unworthy of a Jivaro warrior. He walked on; if the whaler sought another confrontation, then Spike would not back down.

Before long Olaf did spot Spike and headed directly towards him. "So, jungle man," the whaler boomed. "We meet again."

- - - - -

Giles emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. He'd woken feeling more dead than alive, but a shower had refreshed him to the point where he only felt as if he'd just run a marathon. Wearing a deep-sea diver's suit.

Drusilla sat up in bed and stretched languorously. "You are very beautiful," she said appreciatively.

"Um, perhaps not the words I would have chosen," Giles said self-deprecatingly. "You are beautiful. I'm just an ordinary man, no longer in the first flush of youth, although I flatter myself that I have kept in quite good shape from my age."

"Silly Rupert. You are beautiful. Take off that cloth, I want to see all of you."

"Oh, very well," Giles agreed, and complied. He couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed at standing in front of her stark naked, even after all the things that they had done the previous night.

"He's gone small," Drusilla said, sounding disappointed.

"He has had to work rather hard," Giles said defensively.

Drusilla let the bedclothes slip down very slowly to reveal just the very edges of her nipples. "I have more work for him," she said, and ran her tongue over her parted lips. "I wonder if he is up to it. Oh, yes, I think he might be." She let the bedding slip down a fraction of an inch further. "See, he grows large once more."

"Remarkable," Giles breathed. After his exertions the previous night he wouldn't have expected to be capable of reacting to any stimulus so soon; or possibly even ever again.

"Where is Ethan?" Drusilla asked.

"Um, he had to go to work," Giles told her. Ethan had risen early and almost fled the room, looking rather like a zombie, and muttering something about getting his heart checked out.

"That is a shame," Drusilla said. "But it is you that I like best."

"I'm glad to hear that," Giles said, pleased, but also wondering how long he would be able to survive the attentions of this beautiful and insatiable woman.

"Oh!" Drusilla exclaimed suddenly, and sat bolt upright. "The spirits! They talk to me. There is danger."

Even though Drusilla's beautiful body was now completely exposed Giles felt the erotic atmosphere suddenly evaporate, and certain bodily parts deflated as if they realised that they would not be required after all. "Danger? For Spike?"

- - - - -

"Olá, Sr. Olaf," Spike greeted the Icelander. He was poised for instant action. "What do you want now?"

"I wish to apologise," Olaf said, much to Spike's surprise. "You are a great warrior, jungle man. Like a Viking. I have caused trouble for you, and I was wrong. My daughter has scolded me long and told me that I was a big fool. She is right. You are fisherman; I am fisherman. We should be friends, not enemies."

"Not gonna argue with that," Spike said warily. "But if you're Buffi's enemy then you're mine too."

"I am no enemy to Buffi Sommersdottir," Olaf assured him. "I have a big mouth and a hot temper, but I have much respect for her. She is a good Prime Minister. Clever, and very wise for one so young. Yes, I want to be able to hunt whales, but I know she thinks first of Iceland's place in the world, and she will do what she thinks is best for the country. Come, I buy you coffee, and we talk."

- - - - -

"I see trees falling," Drusilla wailed. "I see sloths plummeting from the branches like nuts. I see a monster carrying the trees away in its jaws."

Giles didn't press for clarification; he knew from previous experiences that it was better to wait until her vision was over. Instead he dressed, knowing that there would be no further sexual activities that morning, and simultaneously feeling disappointed and relieved. Her vision seemed to be more relevant to Brazil to Iceland, and he was perplexed; although he wouldn't rule out her vision being of the Peter Jackson remake of 'King Kong'.

- - - - -

"I was annoyed that those two American girls were trying to influence our Prime Minister," Olaf explained. "What business is it of theirs if we hunt whales?" He drained half of his cup of coffee in one go, and then shrugged. "Still, I too was influenced by the Americans. They paid me to cause trouble at Karathús."

"Why?" Spike asked. "Thought they'd have wanted to keep in good with the Prime Minister, not cause trouble for her."

"They did not tell me," Olaf replied. "I was angry because she beat me at the Ambassadors' Ball. I asked no questions, only took their money. But they told me that their men would come to protect her, and I was to lose, so that the Americans would look like big damn heroes."

"And what about me?"

"They wanted me to crush you," Olaf said. "They hoped you would look weak in front of Buffi. Was bad plan, huh? You are very strong for a tiny man. Brave. A very good fighter. And your sister, she is Valkyrie, like Buffi. Ah, if I was twenty years younger and not married to my Rannveig, I could make merry sport with her."

- - - - -

"So, Master Sergeant, whaddya think?" Tony Harris asked.

The tall African-American Marine sat back in his chair and lit the cigar that the Ambassador had proffered. "With respect, Ambassador, I think you're going about this all wrong," he said.

"Oh?" Tony Harris raised his eyebrows. "You have a better idea?"

"Yeah. Look, Ambassador, you don't need to beat this guy up here. Still less kill him. Who needs all the hassle? Iceland's a civilised First World country. Diplomatic immunity or not, there'd be all kinds of hell raised if something happened to the Prime Minister's boyfriend. No, all you need is for him to go home, out of your hair, away from Buffi Sommersdottir."

"Oh yeah? How're you gonna arrange that? And what's to stop him just coming right back?"

"Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home," Robin Wood chanted. "Your house is on fire and your children are gone." He grinned at the puzzled Ambassador. "If the guy's tribal lands got burned down to the topsoil, his family got chased outta their village, and maybe a few fatal accidents happened to them in the process, I guess he'd be straight back to Brazil. And once he was there," he blew out a long stream of cigar smoke, "I could make sure that the only way he'd be coming back would be in a box."

To be continued …

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.


End file.
